


Superfluity with a Dirty Baseline

by orphan_account



Series: Musical Avocados [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Foggy gets around, M/M, Matt/Foggy endgame, Pre-Slash, but he's still an awkward turtle, multiple past relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy's always liked words, always knew how to shape them and twist them into exactly the shape he needed to convey his thoughts perfectly.  Meeting Matt had just made it worse.  He'd spent hours learning new words to expand his already robust vocabulary, thinking that someday Matt might want him to paint pictures for him with his words the way Matt painted pictures with his music.  And if that happened he wanted to have the perfect words at his disposal to give Matt the most vivid verbal landscape he could.  </p>
<p>When he'd realized that Matt didn't need Foggy to translate the world for him in any way, he'd taken comfort in the silly, gratuitous words-because they were just as superfluous as Foggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superfluity with a Dirty Baseline

**Author's Note:**

> *waves* Hi new fandom! This is not at all the way I wanted to pop my Daredevil cherry, but oh well. This is the first of a series of one-shots in this 'verse and it sort of ended up more of a character-study than anything plot-driven. And for a story that does nothing but talk about sex, there's a depressing lack of actual sex. *hides face* Honestly, I have no idea what the fuck this is, but I like it. 
> 
> For the AU: Band square on my trope-bingo card

When Foggy inks his name on the new contract—the one that’s supposed to change their lives, the one that says they’ve _made it_ —he’s not thinking about what it means for his bank account, or for career stability, or the popularity of their music.  Instead he has the giddy realization half way through that he’s had (ill-advised, poorly-timed, fucking-amazing) one-and-done sex, the kind where he wanted more and his partner didn’t, with every single person in the room.  A hysterical giggle bubbles up and out his throat before he can stop it.  He honestly doesn’t try very hard though.

Karen—not understanding and mistaking the noise for excitement—smiles over at him, soft and secretive.  It’s a private, shared thing, and yet still somehow lacks the intimacy that should be there between two people who’ve been physical together and stayed friends after.

Foggy’s not surprised by the distance in that smile, or by the way Karen continually tries to bridge that distance in all the wrong ways.  The lighting in the room makes her hair look redder than usual (or maybe it’s her shirt, Foggy was never very good with the color coordination thing) and it’s incredibly pretty; that’s what Foggy smiles back at her for, not a shared experience of happiness, like she thinks.  The little twinge he used to feel so strongly at deceiving people he cares about flares up, but it’s not nearly as powerful as it used to be.  It’s almost non-existent now.  Besides, it would hurt her far too much to know that sharing anything with her leaves a slightly bitter taste in his mouth now, especially since she thinks they’re just fine; maybe even closer than before they got drunk and fucked that one time.  Foggy thinks it’s good that at least one of them can make a home for themselves in that delusion; he’d wrap himself up in it and wear it like a blanket if he could.

Matt and Marci both know better though—which makes sense; they _have_ known him longer.  They both react differently to the (dumb, telling, petty) small outburst because they recognize the sound as Foggy’s “losing his shit” noise.

Marci’s gaze lights on each person sitting around the table before coming to rest on Foggy and she smiles knowingly.  She flits a brief look back at Vladimir and raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow.  It makes sense that _he’s_ the one Marci wants to give Foggy shit about.

It should maybe be disconcerting that a girl who once tied him to his own bed, whipped him until he cried, made him beg her not to stop, then didn’t speak to him for another eight months, can read him well enough to know who he’s screwed without being told—but it’s _Marci;_ Foggy had long since accepted her knowledge of the world around her was (impressive, annoying, arousing) terrifying.  He blushes and shrugs in a way he hopes conveys “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

Although that’s a lie; he’d known even then, when he was sinking to his knees, and looking up through his eyelashes, and Vladimir’s fingers were curling through his hair tightly enough to have him wincing, that it was a stupid thing to do.  Possibly even stupider than sleeping with Matt.  Or Claire.  Or actually, _any_ of the people in this room.  Because, it’s possible that this is not really a contract signing, but Hell; whatever circle of Hell is the one that makes you sit in a room and confront all of your poor life choices.  He could probably ask Matt; his (sexy, infuriating, genius) good-Catholic-boy best friend would know exactly what circle and exactly what sort of sins had landed Foggy here.

But with Vladimir Foggy hadn’t exactly cared about how stupid it was when he’d done it either.  Vladimir was the one he’d kind of already hated himself for going into it.  He was also the only one that might actually have been kind of worth it.  It didn’t still hurt a little to look at him like it did with the rest, and the sex had been so athletic and so mind-numbingly good he’d actually had to ice his groin the next day.  So yeah, while it probably wasn’t a _good_ idea to sleep with the guy that offered his band record deals, Foggy is still gonna put that one in the entirely worth it column.

Foggy realizes he’s been sitting there letting the awkward soak into his skin—although he’s probably the only one who feels uncomfortable at all—and he never actually finished signing.  Everyone is staring at him and it feels like that one weird nightmare he’d had where he’d been naked in a funhouse and all his exes were there to laugh at all his flaws before moving on to how bad he was in bed.  This was sort of exactly like that except there was no naked and no funhouse mirrors.  Sweat prickles at the back of his neck.

Matt frowns and reaches out to lay two fingers on the knob of bone in Foggy’s wrist.  The silence had stretched too long.

Foggy startles at the contact, he shouldn’t have though.  Matt does that a lot during silences he can tell are strained; it’s his way of asking Foggy if he’s missed anything.  It’s probably a sign of just how rattled Foggy is feeling if that (casual, innocent, reassuring) familiar touch was enough to throw him.

Matt’s frown deepens.  He withdraws his hand and shifts away from Foggy, putting more space between them.

Foggy hadn’t even been aware that they were kind of leaning toward each other until Matt moved away, but that wasn’t really unusual either.  He often leaned in to be able to communicate anything visual Matt might be missing.  What _was_ unusual was how Matt angled himself away from Foggy now.  It was a lot more noticeable to Foggy than a shift of just a few inches should have been.  Jesus, he’s out of it.  He signs his name with a flourish and slams the pen down.

Marci smiles widely.  “Well, Foggy-Bear makes the last of you.  It’s official.”  She reaches out and gathers the newly-signed contracts.  The sound of the papers shuffling is loud in the quiet room; it’s like none of them has any idea what to do now.

Foggy grins (plastic, insincere, too-manic) lopsided and tries to feel the elation he tells himself he should; really, he just wants to get the fuck out of this room.  “Yep kids, we’ve sold our souls for rock and roll.”  The joke falls a little flatter than his jokes normally do, voice cracking and strained, but he feels better for having made the effort.  He’s kind of starting to panic about the fact that he’s just promised to work with all of the people in this room with varying degrees of frequency for at least another three albums and he was having (messy, pathetic, unrequited) inconvenient feelings all over the damn place for more than one of them.  He really needed to learn how to keep his dick in his pants; life would be far less (painful, exciting, embarrassing) complicated.  Maybe.

Karen smiles widely.  She’s always been the most invested in their success; she’s always needed it the most, having nothing to go back to if they fail.

Marci puffs her chest out in pride.  Winning always looks so good on her.

Claire bites her lip.  She’s clearly worried about what might happen to Matt if he keeps pushing himself like he had been.

Vladimir smiles like the cat that got the canary.  There’s nothing a very rich man likes more than getting richer.

Matt gets up and walks out without a word.  It’s never been about the money, or the lifestyle, or anything else with him.  It’s _always_ about the music.

And Foggy, like always, follows him.  He knows even as he goes that this band, this _man,_ is going to be the death of him.  But watching that (bite-able, spank-able, lick-able) spectacular ass go out ahead of him, he’s honest enough with himself to admit that he kind of doesn’t care.  He’s (resigned, honored, desperate) content to be the (foolish, stalwart, diverting) superfluous addition in _all_ of their lives—but especially Matt’s. 


End file.
